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Monday, September 23, 2013

V8:Chapter Fifteen-Unwelcome Guests

Volume Eight

Chapter
Fifteen

Unwelcome
Guests

In which Dodger meets up with a familiar
face

“Who
is in charge here?” the agent asked.

“I
am,” Critchlow said. He hissed at his own words, then bit his lip as he
motioned to the chief beside him. “I mean I am the representative agent. This
is Chief Atchee, the man in charge of the tribe.”

The
government man grinned and approached the chief with his hand extended in
traditional white-man greeting. “Agent Tyler Crank, at your service.”

The
sound of the man’s name gored Dodger to the soul. How many years had it been
since they last crossed paths? Ten years? Longer? The last time Dodger spoke
with Crank was just before the powers that be stripped Dodger of his rank and
sent him to the front lines. In fact, it was less of a conversation and more of
an argument. If Dodger had it to do all over again, it would’ve been less of an
argument and more of a fight.

Or
a murder.

Time
had been good to Crank. What was he now, in his fifties? Maybe older? The man
had put on a touch of weight, which was to be expected when it came to middle
age, but other than that, he was as handsome as ever. Dodger had always been
envious of Crank’s good looks and easy way with the ladies. Crank still dressed
in all black, regardless of the heat.

“It
is not my tribal name,” Jones said. “I spent some time in the company of
Reverend Young.”

“The
Mormons,” Crank said with a sneer. He looked to Critchlow and laughed. “Great God,
I feel sorry enough for him as it is being a native, but to be strapped with
that blowhard?” Crank looked back to Jones
and tipped his forefinger to his hat. “You have my condolences, boy.”

Jones’s
nostrils flared in resentment, but he somehow managed to keep his mouth shut.

“Actually,
sir,” Critchlow said. “We are fortunate to have him with us. He speaks English
far better than I speak Ute.”

“Good
then,” Crank said. “He can translate for me instead of you. I don’t have a
whole lot of time to waste on a slow speaker.” Crank pushed Critchlow aside and
all but yanked Jones into the man’s place. “Now, who do we have here?”

With
remarkable restraint, Jones introduced the agent to the rest of the line.

Tyler
Crank—the same man who had taken a young Rodger on his first mission—turned his
handshake and greeting to the gathered entourage. Once he came to Dodger, he
paused and stared for a moment longer than Dodger was comfortable with. “Do I
know you?”

“No,
sir,” Dodger said. “I wouldn’t reckon so.”

“That’s
quite a bruise you have there. Been in a fight recently?”

“Not
at all. Just clumsy.”

Crank
held out his hand. “Tyler Crank, Federal representative.”

Dodger
stuck his hand out. “Arnold Carpenter, head of security for the Sleipnir.”

Jones
narrowed his eyes at Dodger, a trace of a smirk crossing his lips.

Dodger
almost breathed a sigh of relief at the support of his lie. He just wished
there were some way to keep Jones from spilling the beans.

“Of
course,” Crank said. “I have heard so much about you. I’m Tyler Crank, a
representative from the Federal government. It’s nice to meet you, sir.” Crank proffered
a hand, which the doc ignored. Rejected, Crank was left to nod at the doc
before he moved on to the last few natives in line. Jones followed on his
heels, translating the name and position of each man. After the greetings were
done, Crank stepped back to the middle of the group, took a few paces backwards,
then looped his thumbs in his belt, staring at the group of gathered folks like
he was appraising a hundred head of cattle and not speaking with the honored
leaders of a native tribe. When he finally spoke, he addressed Critchlow.

And
only Critchlow.

“I
suppose you know what I’m here for?” Crank asked.

“Yes,
sir. To assess the ICE machine.”

“Assess
and remove, Agent Critchlow. Assess and remove. These natives don’t need or
want the burden of such a dangerous machine. Now do they?”

Jones
translated this to the natives. There came a few murmurs, and one or two gasps,
but on the whole, the tribe kept their wits about them.

Dodger
nodded to Critchlow. Go on then, he wanted
to say. Do your job.

Critchlow
closed his eyes. After a quick huff, he opened them and said, “Actually, sir, I
rather think the natives do want the machine.”

Raising
an eyebrow at the man’s words, Crank asked, “Really? Is that what you think?”

“Yes.
Sir.”

Jones
set to translating the interaction for the benefit of all present.

Crank
took a few steps toward Critchlow, then lowered his voice to a whisper as he
leaned in to say, “I think we both know that what you think doesn’t amount to a
hill of beans. Because what I say goes. Understood, Agent Critchlow?”

Trembling
from head to toe, Critchlow swallowed audibly before he said, “No, sir.”

Crank
leaned away from the insolent man. “What was that?”

“I
said, no, sir. I don’t think what you say goes. At least not here. Sir.”
Critchlow pointed to the border of the reservation, a few yards away. “Perhaps
over there, what you say goes. But here,” Critchlow paused as he shifted his
finger to point to the soil directly under his feet. “Here, what Chief Atchee
says goes. Sir.”

“Is
that so?” Crank let out a soft laugh as he took a few steps away from Critchlow.
“And what makes you think that?”

Something
inside of Critchlow broke at the question, for without warning, a torrent of
unguarded opinions poured forth from him. “I don’t think, sir. I believe. And
what makes me believe is the treaty that grants these fine folks rights to this
land. The same land no one else wanted. The same treaty that our president
himself signed. I believe this is Chief Atchee’s land, not ours. I believe we
are visitors, at best. And as visitors, I believe we should show a bit more
respect. Don’t you agree? Sir?”

Jones
was fast on the back end of Critchlow’s words, explaining them as best he could
to the natives. Once he was done, a whoop went up across the crowd. Crank’s men
glanced around nervously at the noise, but thankfully, none of them went for a
weapon. The cry lasted a few seconds before the chief raised his hands, at
which the whoop died down.

The
chief said a few things in a slow and calculated manner.

The
man’s speech had a peculiar effect on Jones. Each word brought out an obvious
disappointment in him. Every syllable changed his whole demeanor. Every
enunciation shifted his entire attitude. Every word the chief spoke pierced
Benjamin Jones to the heart.

“No,”
Jones whispered.

Critchlow
looked just as shocked as Jones, but translated the message all the same. “The
chief says none of that matters, because the machine has malfunctioned. He has
returned the bulk of the disobedient machine to the father. That would be
Professor Dittmeyer, sir.”

The
doc fairly beamed with pride as he crossed his arms and smirked at the agents. It
was the most defiant body language Dodger had ever seen the old man employ. Dodger
officially had no idea what was going on, and he didn’t like it one bit.

The
government men glanced to one another, as if to say, “What do we do now?”

“Agent
Critchlow,” Crank said from behind clenched teeth. “Can you step over here, please?
I would like to have a few words with you.”

Putting
on a brave face, Critchlow did as asked.

Dodger
almost felt sorry for the man, for as soon as Critchlow stepped near the white
men, Crank snatched him up by the collar and laid into him with heated
whispers.

While
this was going on, Jones said a few clipped words in Ute. His chief didn’t
answer the man. Jones repeated his words. The chief ignored him again. Jones
shouted a short but obviously angry tirade in his native tongue, and once he
was finished, the chief finally looked to him. The look was not a pretty one.
Dodger was kind of glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of that look.

Chief
Atchee said two words in Ute.

Dodger
recognized the statement as the equivalent of, “I’m disappointed in you.”

Jones
reached behind him for a moment with both hands, then must’ve thought better of
it, as he returned his hands to his sides. He dropped his scowl and his head as
he answered his chief in a consolatory tone.

The
chief waved the apology away and turned to address the native at his right.

Jones
took a step or two back from his chief, then stormed off to the end of the
line, taking up a space just beside Dodger.

“You
should see this as a blessing, Jones,” Dodger said in a low voice, just under
the mounting argument between the agents. “This gives you an honorable way out
of this madness. Now you won’t lose face in front of your men.”

“Shut
up,” Jones hissed. “This changes nothing, Mr. Carpenter.”

Dodger
winced at the name, but kept his focus where it needed to be. “Come on, Jones. I
know you’re smarter than that. Don’t pull down on them first. You might win
this battle, but at what cost? On top of innocent deaths, you’ll start a war
you can’t keep fighting without the ICE machine to power your forge, and you
ain’t gettin’ that back. Ever.”

Jones
considered Dodger’s words. “Then they will draw first, and we will defend
ourselves. We will go down as martyrs, and every tribe within a thousand miles
will race to join the war you started.”

Which
was sort of what Dodger had hoped to hear. “You know they won’t slap leather
unless they feel threatened. And if you threaten them, history will set this down
to wild savages acting out. Best to let this one slide, Jones. Now ain’t the
time to make a stand. Not when there are so many innocent folks to get in the
way.”

Jones
said nothing. Instead, he kept his eyes forward, looking off into the distance
rather than grace Dodger with even a glance.

“I
don’t care what you want,” Critchlow said loudly. “This is how it’s going to
happen.”

The
bureaucrat pulled out of Crank’s grip. “Mine. And if you don’t like it, you can
take it up with the Indian Agency. Good day, sir.” He then did the one thing
that Dodger had never seen a man do to Agent Tyler Crank and get away with.

Pure
and simple courage in motion, Critchlow spun on his heel and stomped away,
leaving Crank with his mouth hanging open in surprise. Critchlow returned to
the chief, but instead of rejoining the line, he stood in front of the chief,
keeping his back to Crank and sending a signal as clear as a midsummer bonfire.

Dodger
held his breath. If there were ever a moment when Crank would pull his piece,
this would be it. He glanced to Jones, who grinned in return, as if he had the
exact same thought.

A
heartbeat passed.

Two.

Three.

After
a few moments of silence, Crank snapped his mouth shut with a growl. “I
guarantee I’ll take it up with your bureau, Agent Critchlow. I Goddamned
guarantee it.” He scanned the crowd, looked back and forth one last time, as if
trying to remember every little detail of the moment. “If you are done wasting
my time, we will be on our way. Unless you have something else useless to
report to your superior?”

Critchlow
glanced up at the large tent holding the dying buffalo, then looked to Dodger
with a grin. Keeping his back to Crank, he said over his shoulder, “No sir.
Nothing else to report. You know everything you need to know.”

Crank
gave another audible growl as he motioned to his men. “Let’s get back to
civilization and leave these animals to it. This trip was a waste of time.”

The
white men began the short walk back to their steeds, ready to leave without
another word, but before they could reach their horses, Jones called out to
Agent Crank.

“Sir?”
Jones asked. “Can I have a word before you go?”

Crank
stopped dead in his tracks. “This better be important, boy.”

Dodger
brought his hands to the buckle of his belt, ready to spread ‘em out to his
hips should this be the dreaded moment of conflict. But no, instead of Jones
drawing his own guns, he crossed the small space between the men and leaned in
to speak with Crank in a low voice. Dodger wished he hadn’t commanded Boon to
stay on the line, because he would’ve given anything to know what all the
whispering was about.

Though,
from the way Crank lost his scowl as Jones spoke, Dodger had a fairly good
idea. The agent looked to Dodger with saucer-wide eyes, a grin spreading over
his face as thick as honey down a bear’s chin.

Once
Jones was done with his quick word, Crank stepped back from the native and
actually tipped his hat to the man. Quite a change from the ‘insufferable
savage’ attitude of only moments before. “Thanks so much for the information.”
Crank glanced to Dodger one more time before he looked back to Jones and added,
“Seems this trip wasn’t a total waste after all.”

Agent
Tyler Crank motioned again to his men, and just like that, they mounted their
steeds and rode off.

“That
went better than expected,” the doc said.

“I
suppose so,” Dodger said. “I’m afraid we haven’t seen the last of Tyler Crank.
Unfortunately, he and I go way, way back.”

The
doc raised a single eyebrow in question. “Oh yes. About that, Mr. Carpenter.”

Dodger
looked to Critchlow—who was deep in conversation with the chief about what had just
transpired—then drew in close to the doc and shook his head. “Not here. I’ll
tell you as soon as we-”

“Yes,
Mr. Carpenter,” Jones said over him. “Tell us all about it.”

“Oh
dear,” the doc said, looking beyond Dodger as he lifted his open palms to the
air.

Dodger
didn’t have to turn about to know that Jones had a bead on him.